Miroku: A Life Like Wax
by Voice of Midnight
Summary: Miroku feels that his last moments are approaching. With only a candle, paper, and a pen, what would his last thoughts and words be?


**Miroku: A Life Like Wax**

Author: The Voice of Midnight

Summary: Miroku feels that his last hour is approaching; his curse is shifting. In his last moments, he leaves a few pages for his friends and Sango. Unfortunately, his feelings for Sango keep him from writing what he really means to write. Perhaps Miroku's life was darker than it seemed . . .

**Chapter 1 - Time is Fading**

I feel as if I've been here before, in this darkness that surrounds me. Writing by candlelight is . . . eerie.

I have thought about writing this all day, and now I am prepared to extract my thoughts onto paper. I may not have enough time to record everything, though. Sadly, I'm sure I've forgotten half of it while looking for a candle in our guest's home, and then while trying to find a private place to write. I need to be alone. My only other company is the lost moon, now.

The truth is, I fear my end is coming. I can feel my curse shifting on my palm, as if it were angry, or starving. Soon, I fear, it will consume me. I have not told anyone of this. I do not wish to worry them. It is not worth their time. However, one thing concerns me . . .

More than anything, I fear that Sango has fallen in love with me. I didn't want her to. How could she, anyway? Despite everything she knows about my dirty habits and my coming doom, I continue to feel as if . . . she _intentionally_ ignores it all. I've even _tried_ to become unattractive, just to scare her away. Touching _her_, for starters, and then groping other women as well. And yet, her feelings do not seem to change, and all I manage to do is upset her. Therefore, all I do is hurt myself.

Does she really overlook all of my defects — my impending death?

How could she do that to herself?

Why would she cause herself the heartbreak?

I have thought of Sango more than any other woman in my life. Even now, as I try to perfect every stroke of my brush, I often become dazed by my memory of her. Long periods of time slip by quickly. The wax of the candle burns down. Perhaps that is the _real_ reason why I do not keep a journal — I could never finish a day's entry. I see to many women in a day to keep pace.

However, Sango is different. She is _always_ lingering in my mind, even now . . .

The memory of her voice rings in my ears, the quick shift of her eyes when she finds me staring at her. I can even picture her skin with its beautiful sheen. And,_ oh,_ the fervor that courses through my veins when I imagine her lips. I could spend an entire day trying to capture that fervor in writing, and it would be worth the time. And those haunting eyes . . .

. . . _they will not leave my mind at peace!_

If only there was a way to forget her charm. I feel as if I've been poisoned, and with each passing minute that she wanders my thoughts, I become more detached from reality. I wish I could give her everything. At times, I feel so undeserving of her care, that I feel as if the only worthy gift to show my care . . . is _me_. I wish I could give her _pleasure_ . . . however, I would never force a woman, especially Sango.

My fascinations are running wild again.

I can picture her standing before me, trembling, as she slowly slips her clothes down her curves. Inch-by-inch, her form is exposed, and little-by-little, I, too, become nervous. After she is fully exposed, she shuns her face and attempts to hide her parts with her small limbs. A beautiful, pale figure among a cruel world. She has given herself to me, and yet she continues to act so shy and awkward, so frightened of what is to come. She stiffly runs to me, and I take her in my arms. Her small frame intertwines perfectly into mine, underneath my shielding arms.

And I think: _Finally, someone needs to share the warmth I feel; someone wants to know how deep and tender love can be_. And, for once, I am completed. My heart feels whole, as if I had been missing a half and never realized it.

It is then, suddenly, that the universe becomes so kind and beautiful.

"_I will take care of you,"_ I whisper into her ear. Her grasp on my body relaxes. _"I will be gentle. I would never want to hurt you."_

Oh, God . . . my heart is pounding!

Stop thinking of her . . . _stop!_

My imagination is harsh; it will not obey, whether she is near or far. I try to calm myself after we exchange glances, or when I smell her scent — that light, feminine scent that lingers long after she is gone. Everything about her _teases_ me.

As you see, whenever there is the time and peace to think, her ghost freely roams my mind. An array of happy futures flood my mind . . .

I can see her tears she would shed on our wedding day. After brushing away her tears and kissing her lips, I want to tell her, with all my soul, _"I love you. We will make it through."_ Of course, she will only cry more, and I will smile. Women are such delicate creatures.

I can envision the home I would build, its size and location. It is so real in my mind that I can feel the grass as it bends under my hand, and the vibration of our bedroom door I slide it open. The soft echo of the pond can be heard throughout the yard, in every crevice, and by every locus. I can even feel the coldness of the raining nights, when the wind shudders every wall of the house; it would be times likes these when our children would snuggle between Sango and me for protection.

It will be a wonderful place for our children.

"_Our home . . ."_ I want to whisper to the walls and the garden. _"This is our home."_

And I will treasure the place for as long as I am alive.

Time will pass. And just as soon as our children get a taste of their new lives, Sango and I will be ending ours. Years will vanish, and before long, we will both be old. As we wither and become weak, I will look upon our weathered house, and remember the beginning days we spent there. Times of our youth will sweep through my mind. The harshest times of my life will not seem so harsh, and actually, by the time I reach that age, I would give anything to relive them again.

"_You were our home,"_ I would want to tell the old building; "_and you always will be."_

Then, as I softly close my eyes and reminisce of the years gone by, tears would fall. And I would not regret a single day of my wonderful life.

**Chapter 2 — Dying Without Dreams**

Forgive me — I began to cry. I am afraid I will not be able to fully complete my thoughts because the wax on my candle is running low. It is too painful to dream anymore, anyway. There will be no future for me. None of my dreams will come to exist.

I am a cursed man.

My soul will be forced to travel in eternal darkness. I know that instead of sweetly crying on our wedding day, Sango will be weeping the day my curse claims me; in the void, there will be no escape from the misery of knowing this. Could it be more like Hell than I imagined? My body will leave no remains on this earth to mourn.

How sad.

However, I have decided to try to leave my staff behind. My good, old, holy staff. It is more than just an item. Besides that, I have also left these few pages of thoughts. These will be the only things that I will be able to leave behind. I imagine that my friends will pierce my staff into the ground where I will have departed. It will be like a marker, or a grave. This is where Sango will mourn for me. Perhaps, I may hear her cries from within the void. My only wish is that she will not mourn for too long.

I am not worth her trouble.

I have had to place the candle right beside my pen to see my own writing. There is barely any time left. The flame is dimming above the last remains of wax. Soon, the flame will flicker and smother itself.

And then, I will be left in darkness.


End file.
